


May The Wolves Be Ever In Your Favour

by jaskiersvalley (connorssock)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Hunger Games AU, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moral Dilemmas, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorssock/pseuds/jaskiersvalley
Summary: When Cirilla was picked as Tribute at the reaping, Geralt had no choice but to volunteer in order to ensure her survival. Even if it cost him everything. He didn't expect a bard who refused to even handle a weapon to worm his was into his heart. Yet there Jaskier was and Geralt had to face the choice of duty or love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 145
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	May The Wolves Be Ever In Your Favour

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the most incredible Disturbed But Gorgeous (https://disturbedbutgorgeous.tumblr.com/) who has created the most divine art and was an absolute delight to work with.  
> Thanks also goes to DLS for their beta work on the fic.

The reaping was terrible enough most years. But Geralt especially hated it of late because he had to worry about his stupid Child Surprise. Not that he was allowed to have anything to do with her but he knew that if her name got pulled from the bowl in her district, he would be somehow roped into helping her. Calanthe would make sure he was punished for shirking his duties to his Child Surprise. 

While witchers were exempt from the games thanks to their calling to stay on the Path, they had the knowledge that they would decimate everyone in the games, there were no rules to stop them from volunteering if the mood took. Safe to say, the mood never took any of them, they saw too much blood and death on the Path and it wasn’t like winning the Games would mean they no longer had to walk the Path afterwards. Witchers had one purpose in life and that was to clear the world of monsters. They would do that until their last breath, it was their destiny that wove the narrative of their deaths, not some game maker.

The reaping was underway and Geralt was in the music district of Oxenfurt when a messenger caught up with him. People were being herded to the main square, cleaned and dressed in their finest to ‘celebrate’ the offering of their own to the next Games. Nobody was safe, young and old alike were at risk. While Geralt was exempt from his name being entered, he was still required to attend and witness a reaping if he was within the realms of a district.

Around him, the square was unnaturally silent. Men were on the left, women on the right and they all stared at the stage where a vaguely familiar and beautiful woman with purple eyes sashayed into view.

“Welcome,” she purred, “to the 74th Hunger Games. I’m Yennefer and I am delighted to be here. As always, we have a video to remind us all of why we are here today.”

The screen flickered to life behind her and everyone turned to watch the now familiar piece of propaganda. Personally, Geralt thought it was a crock of shit stirred with a rusty spoon but witchers weren’t ever asked for their opinion. Sometimes, as much as he hated being a witcher, he gave thanks for the fact he got to escape the bullshit this whole glorified slaughtering of innocents dressed as the event of the year was.

Just as the film was coming to an end, someone tapped Geralt on the shoulder. He turned his head to look at the newcomer and cocked an eyebrow at the messenger who looked nervous as anything.

“Yes?”

“I have a message from Queen Calanthe.”

Up on the stage, Yennefer was looking around with a forced smile, prattling on about traditions and how men go first. She reached into the jar and, after a few circles of a well manicured finger, picked a piece of folded card at random.

In the background, Geralt heard the name ‘Julian-something or other’ along with a few murmurs before the crowd was parting to reveal the poor sod destined to die this year. However, Geralt was far too concerned with his own problems at that moment. His Child Surprise, Cirilla, had been chosen at the reaping. She was only twelve. There was no hope in hell of her coming out the victor, no matter how well she had been trained in preparation. What Cirilla needed was an ally, a powerhouse killer who was duty-bound to protect her at all costs. Someone who would kill all who stood in her way of victory and would then sacrifice himself to ensure her survival and the lineage of Cintra. No one was more perfect than the witcher who had claimed her as his Child Surprise.

At the front, Yennefer had just pulled out another name from the girls’ bowl. Distantly, Geralt was aware of something like Essi being called out but his own head was too full of the buzzing knowledge of what he had to do. To refuse meant that all of Cintra would hunt him down. That was on top of Destiny tugging at him, pulling him into the arena to protect what was his only by law and nothing else. On the plus side, at least in the Games his suffering would have a timeline with a predictable end. Fuck. To die in the Games, protecting a Child Surprise who was never truly his was not the way he had anticipated his demise. Still, it made a bit of a difference from a typical witcher death - alone and in pain as a beast bested him.

“I volunteer.”

People turned and gaped at him as he strode through the ranks of people, shouldering them out of the way. With ease, he picked up the girl who had been making her shaking journey to the stairs and set her out of his way. In a few easy stomps, Geralt was on top of the stage and standing where the female tribute should have been. 

“A most unusual occurrence. A witcher has volunteered as tribute.” Yennefer looked so calm and collected, Geralt couldn’t even smell a hint of nerves on her. Damn, she was good. “What is your name, tribute?”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well then, it looks like we have our two tributes from Oxenfurt. Please, cheer on Julian-”

“Actually, it’s Jaskier,” the other tribute butted in and Yennefer gave him an indulgent smile.

“Please, cheer on Jaskier and Geralt as they fight for the honour of your district.”

A lacklustre applause went up and Geralt turned to look at Jaskier. Their eyes met behind Yennefer’s back and there was just one thought that crossed Geralt’s mind. He was going to have to kill Jaskier, preferably early in the games. The man was too soft, too gentle looking to last long. At least Geralt could give him the mercy of a quick and relatively painless death.

They were whisked away into a backroom, which was actually the cleared out town hall. There was nobody coming to say goodbye to Geralt and he was surprised when nobody came to Jaskier either. Who actually looked rather livid at the injustice of being picked.

“I won’t fight. I refuse.” He seethed through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to play into their stupid immoral pagentry.”

“Then you’ll die very quickly.”

That, at least, got Jaskier to look at him with a scathing look. A once-over with so much disgust in his face that Geralt was fairly certain he already knew what Jaskier thought of witchers. Like most others, Jaskier was probably partly scared of him but also partly offended by his mere existence. In fact, Geralt scented the air, already detecting the acrid stench of fear. Sharp and familiar.

“I am well aware of my fate, thank you.” The retort was prim and proper. “Even before you joined this merry little murder party. At least I now know the face of the victor for this year.”

Scoffing, Geralt shook his head. “I’m not going to win.” To which Jaskier made an incredulous sound before Geralt continued. “My Child Surprise will.”

He really tried not to be too bitter about it, this was destiny which had laid dormant until now and finally awoke with vengeance. For twelve years he could ignore the gentle pull, obey Calanthe’s and his own wishes to avoid Cintra. As long as Cirilla was safe, he could go about his business as if nothing had happened. But now, with her in mortal danger, Geralt was yanked around by fate like a misbehaving puppet on a string.

“In that case, I request that you are the one who kills me. At least then it will be quick. Being butchered by a child does sound both humiliating and unnecessarily prolonged.” Jaskier piped up. “Assuming I can’t just walk out of the arena while everyone else is busy tearing each other to pieces in the name of televised entertainment.”

At least that was something Geralt could do and was part of his plan. The Nilfgaardian career pack tended to try and make a show of kills so they got more sponsors - as if they needed any more than they already had. Almost every year they were the favourites to win and usually it was one of them who walked out alive. He had a suspicion that this year’s Game would be the least bloodthirsty in a long while because he was there to kill for protection and not for sport. 

Stepping closer, Geralt expected Jaskier to back up and for the room to flood with the stench of fear and disgust. Instead, curiously, he was met with a steady gaze filled with rage and waves of warm fury in the air.

“The most we can hope for is a shitless death,” he intoned. “I will see to it that yours is one such death.”

Before Jaskier could reply, the door opened and guards filed in, ready to escort them. And there was the smell of Jaskier’s fear again, cloying the air. Curious. There wasn’t much time to ponder it though as they were pushed and shoved towards the train, ready to be whisked off into the next stage of their lives, as short as it might turn out to be.

The train was a luxury that few had ever experienced before. While Jaskier was more at ease, having lived in Oxenfurt, Geralt stood rigid, refusing to sit even as Yennefer sashayed into the carriage with a small smirk.

“So, a witcher and a bard. I’m guessing I’m not going to be bringing a victor home this year either.”

Jaskier’s head whipped up from where he was eyeing up the buffet to glare at Yennefer. “And how would you know that?”

She gave him a scathing once over before replying. “A witcher wouldn’t enter the games because he wanted to kill. He does that enough day to day. Which means he’s protecting someone. And I don’t much fancy your chances, witcher or no witcher in the games.”

Puffing up, Jaskier looked indignant, muttering about the idiocy of fighting when a tactical retreat was definitely better for all concerned. However, he was ignored in favour of Yennefer eyeing up Geralt with open hunger.

“So who is it that you’re protecting?” Yennefer asked while Geralt stared back at her silently. “Oh, don’t give me that. I’m not allowed to bet so you can tell me who will win.”

“Princess Cirilla. She’s my Child Surprise.”

A dark “at least you have a child” tumbled from Yennefer’s lips before she smiled pleasantly. “We’re going to need to get your costumes planned and you both cleaned up.” There was a splutter of indignation from Jaskier but he went ignored. “I’m thinking districtless nomad, protector of the people and his trusty bard.”

“Why can’t he be my witcher? I’m a famous bard,” Jaskier complained. “Maybe I hired him for protection from unwanted suitors, cuckolded spouses and jealous rivals.”

Two sets of eyes turned to look at Jaskier in silent judgement. He huffed and grabbed food blindly off the buffet table, muttering if they couldn’t appreciate his contributions, they didn’t deserve them.

“So, protector and bard, that ought to look quite striking,” Yennefer picked up again. She seemed perfectly content to let Jaskier sulk and Geralt didn’t want to pay Jaskier any attention. Because that would mean getting to know him and that always made killing more difficult. Geralt wanted to slit the throat of a stranger, not a potential ally, someone who he could have maybe even been friends with if circumstances had been different. The fact that Jaskier didn’t smell of fear around him had piqued his interest, made Geralt want to find out more about Jaskier. That first scenting where he was afraid wasn’t of Geralt himself it seemed which was very intriguing. He chastised himself for that thought because all too soon they were both going to be dead so it had no importance. But maybe there was no harm in just a little indulgence of curiosity. Geralt had killed before and was going to do it again, even if Jaskier did capture his interest, it would be the last thing he would regret before the end of his very long life.

The train raced along but they still had a night and half a day’s travel before getting to the Capitol. Geralt, ever the practical man, filled his time the only way he knew how when there were no monsters to kill. He found himself food and a bed companion. While the buffet was bursting with choice, his options for a bed warmer were slim pickings. However, after a few exchanges with Yennefer, there was no doubt about both of them wanting at least a bit of physical pleasure while Jaskier seemed content to sulk and brood, staring out of the window. Any illusion Geralt might have had about Jaskier’s ignorance of his and Yennefer’s night spent together was shattered by the scoffing look of disgust.

“Stealing a few last moments of happiness?” Jaskier had grumbled, hunched over a plate of food at breakfast. “Can’t blame you but I do question your standards.”

It would have been happy if Jaskier hadn’t reeked of bitter jealousy. It made Geralt cock his eyebrow, “You offering a better alternative?”

“In your dreams,” came the lighthearted response, which only made Geralt more intrigued, nobody ever verbally sparred with a witcher. Not for fun anyway. He had had plenty of clashes and arguments with those who had hired him and then refused to pay, innkeepers who refused to serve him, creatures who needed to move to other areas but refused. However, not once had someone made a jibe that wasn’t designed to hurt or belittle.

“Maybe you’ll deign to help me fulfil my dreams then.” There was something quite pleasing about the way Jaskier rolled his eyes but turned a little red as he focused back on his bowl. Geralt counted it as a win.

The knowledge that they were both going to be dead in the matter of a few weeks, quite potentially by Geralt’s own hands made for a strange atmosphere. Under any other circumstance, Geralt would have probably already chased Jaskier away, growling and grumbling about frivolous idiots. As it was, they were stuck together, both trying to make what they could of their limited time left. Sometimes Geralt caught Jaskier and Yennefer talking, the bard humming something and scribbling it down on a paper. Morbidly, Geralt thought he was possibly working on his own funeral dirge. 

In the Capitol, they were separated, Yennefer handing them off to helpers who scrubbed, primped and fussed over their appearances, taking everything away from them, including the wolf medallion. Geralt very much doubted there had ever been a witcher in existence before him who looked so dolled up. Though, if he could have had his way, he’d have used less of the smelly oils and creams, those were a little overwhelming. The irony of being so pampered in preparation for his death was not lost on Geralt. He figured he might as well let it happen, make the most of it. It wasn’t like he ever had the opportunity for something like that before.

Finally, they were prepared for the opening ceremony. Geralt was in plain black leathers, fake swords strapped to his back. He was the caricature of a witcher, stoic, emotionless, intimidating and unfeeling.

“All you have to do is stare ahead,” Yennefer said, patting him on the cheek. “Whatever happens, ignore it. You’re good at that.”

Which was the moment Jaskier appeared, dressed in gaudy, bright colours. There was even a lute across his body that he was tuning with a small frown as he walked.

“Exactly like that, love the glower.” Once again Yennefer patted him, this time on the chest, and they were ushered onto the chariot.

There was nothing to do but stand there as the chariot lurched into motion, they emerged from the doors to a giant arena, full of screaming cheers. As soon as they were on the screens, Jaskier strummed his lute with a smile.

“When a humble bard-” his music and words rang through the arena, bringing with them an unusual silence, “-graced a ride-along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came a song.”

Geralt frowned, the song sounded familiar. Belatedly, he realised it was the one Jaskier had been writing on the train.

By the time they pulled up in front of the raised dais with the other tributes, Jaskier had circled back to the refrain and the arena was hollering along, singing ‘toss a coin to your witcher’ with wild abandon. Not knowing what to do, unwilling to let any of his emotions bubble to the surface, throughout it all, Geralt stared forward unwaveringly, even as President Stregobor gave his welcoming speech. Yennefer was going to be proud.

The Oxenfurt tributes had a whole floor of luxurious living to themselves. Geralt marvelled at the soft, barely used bed, and all the comforts they were surrounded by. By contrast, when Jaskier appeared, he didn’t look as fazed by it. In fact, he flopped down onto one of the sofas, completely at home and looked up at Geralt with a shrug.

“Might as well make the most of it, right?” He shouldn’t have looked so endearing with flowers threaded into his hair, probably because he charmed his helpers into making him even prettier. Unlike Geralt whose help had been gruff but steady; two of them had been a little jumpy around a witcher but, ultimately, they were consummate professionals.

“Now that the end is finally in sight, I get to reek of artificial flowers. Joy,” he grumbled.

Jaskier stood up from the couch and gestured towards the bathroom door. “Let me help with that.”

He didn’t smell of deceit or lies. With nothing to lose, Geralt walked towards the room, wondering just what Jaskier had in mind. The last thing he expected was for Jaskier to start running a bath and looking impatiently at him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“So you’ll kill me swiftly and with mercy.” The words were so matter-of-fact that Geralt could have assumed this was an everyday thing Jaskier said. “Plus, I’m nervous as fuck. They wouldn’t let me keep the lute and I need something to fidget with, your hair looks like the next best thing.”

It turned out to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. The burning scents that had been soaked into his very being were being teased out by Jaskier’s fingers. As far back as Geralt could remember, he hadn’t been voluntarily touched so gently and it was bliss, an indulgence he could finally succumb to now that his fate was sealed. Unfairly, Jaskier hadn’t been as drenched in perfume, possibly because his helpers thought a witcher’s stench needed an unheard of amount of it to be drowned out.

Training started the next day, all tributes were herded into one area with weapons and optional workshops on various survival skills. Truly, it was ridiculous to make Geralt attend, his whole life was one extended survival tutorial. He could make fire, improvise weapons, track, hunt, hide. Those were the very skills that a witcher needed to live. However, he could assess the other tributes and also make sure Cirilla was getting a solid foundation.

As far as first meetings went, Cirilla didn’t seem very enamoured with Geralt and he couldn’t really blame her. She wasn’t afraid but she was most definitely full of disdain for him.

“You should have been there,” she primly reprimanded him. “Grandmother says you should have been there to do your job and then you might have lived.”

It wasn’t that Geralt was expecting to warm to Cirilla, but he was hoping to see something in her that would make dying to ensure her survival worth it. He kept his mouth shut about how Calanthe had forbidden him from having any kind of contact with his Child Surprise, so it wasn’t exactly his fault he wasn’t there for the reaping.

“Why don’t I show you how to make a fire,” he said in the end, too tired of politics and humanity as a whole to even bother arguing with a child. If they already knew this, fine, a refresher wouldn’t help. Geralt was covering all the bases. They were joined by another boy, an elf. He was about Cirilla’s age and Geralt’s stomach clenched at knowing the fate that was going to befall him. So young, it was such a waste. Especially when another girl settled next to them, hesitant but curious. Maybe Jaskier had a point about not fighting, just walking to the edge of the arena and finding a way out. If Geralt hadn’t been bound by his word and destiny, he might have even been tempted to join him. This whole games thing wasn’t his Path, he wasn’t obliged to follow their rules. But Calanthe had forced his hand and he silently cursed her for it, for turning his whole life into a farce for mass entertainment. All because Cirilla was his Child Surprise.

While showing Cirilla, Dara and Marilka how to start a fire, Geralt assessed the others. There were a few friendlier faces that Geralt suspected were as resigned as he was. Cirilla had a guard who had volunteered to protect her. Lazlo was young, cocky and was going to be a valuable ally in the initial chaos because Geralt had no doubt he would be put far from Ciri, just to increase the drama of it all. The bastards who were the gamekeepers were not going to make it easy for him.

Part of Geralt wanted to involve Jaskier in this too. Looking around, he spotted him sitting at the edge of the arena, having somehow found a lute and was looking as peaceful as Geralt had ever seen him.

“Bring your lute, it might make for decent firewood,” he called and Jaskier looked positively enraged.

“Over my dead body!” The snarled reply had everyone’s attention snapping to Jaskier and people laughed.

“Don’t worry darling,” Eyck drawled. “I’ll set it aflame over your corpse just for you.”

He laughed again and nudged Cahir, his fellow career pack tribute who snickered along, “It will burn so bright.”

Already, Geralt felt less remorse for their impending deaths. Killing shouldn’t be rejoiced or glorified and yet that’s what these games were all about. Ignoring more jibes about seeing a witcher in action, he turned back to Ciri, Dara and Marilka, joined by Chireadan who, by his own admission, was a healer rather than a killer.

They only had a week to train. One week and for the first four days of it, Jaskier sat in the corner, playing his lute. It was difficult to imagine killing him. The more Geralt had to spend time existing with Jaskier, the more attached he got. As stupid as it was, he indulged in flights of fancy of helping Jaskier escape. Or protecting him over Cirilla. Not that it could ever happen, but Geralt could dream. In the evenings, Yennefer joined them in their apartment to talk them through strategies.

“The career pack will take you on as a group,” Yennefer warned Geralt. “They won’t risk one on one, they know they’ll lose.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Geralt snapped. “I’m not some novice knight. I’m over a century old and have been fighting to survive my whole life. I know how these things go.” Frustrated, he pushed away from the dinner table. “Why aren’t you giving Jaskier pointers?”

The answer to his question was glaringly obvious. Somehow, Geralt had been able to acknowledge that Jaskier was going to die but at the same time he hadn’t truly thought about it.

“Jaskier and I have our own strategy worked out,” Yennefer replied coldly. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

Guilty, Geralt stomped to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him, not wanting to hear what kind of death Yennefer had planned for Jaskier. An early night meant he had longer to stare at the blank, vaulted ceiling of his room and plan. It wasn’t fair, he couldn’t let Jaskier be defenceless in the mindless slaughter. His plan of killing Jaskier first was long forgotten in favour of having another ally in the arena. Plus, Yennefer had told him that they would be far from each other at the start. If Jaskier survived the initial chaos, it would have nothing to do with Geralt’s plans. If he wanted to walk away from it all, that was fine but Geralt had to make sure Jaskier could actually have the means to get to his destination without being killed before he had a chance.

At training, he left his little group in Mousesack’s care, they were going to be learning about berries and vines which were safe to eat. While they were busy, Geralt approached Jaskier who was still plucking away at his lute.

“Come with me.”

Cahir wolf-whistled at them with a leer which Geralt ignored. This was important, he owed this to Jaskier. Grumbling and dramatically sighing, Jaskier slung the lute over his back and gave Geralt a flat look.

“Lead the way, Master Witcher.” His voice didn’t hold a single hint of friendliness at being forced to abandon his music and Geralt did his best not to care.

They walked past swords, axes, maces, shields and whips. At the end of the room was an unused lane. There were a few throwing knives and a bow with a handful of arrows set aside. Picking up the bow, Geralt thrust it at Jaskier.

“You will learn to use this.”

Despite his spluttering and indignation, Jaskier ended up setting the lute to the side and accepting the bow Geralt shoved at him. The other tributes made no secret of watching with great curiosity. As patiently as he could, Geralt talked Jaskier through how to hold the bow.

“I’m not actually so stupid as to not know,” Jaskier snapped.

“Prove it.” Geralt growled under his breath. “And prove it to those watching.”

“I was a Viscount, not a hunter.” Nocking an arrow, Jaskier drew back, aimed and let it fly. It clipped the edge of the target and clattered to the floor. A cruel laugh went up amongst the tributes but Geralt pressed another arrow into Jaskier’s hand.

“Again,” he demanded. “This time, relax the shoulder.”

They kept it up until Jaskier’s arms were shaking and he was cursing Geralt with every other breath. But at least he was hitting the target with some consistency. In the end, Jaskier threw the bow to the ground in frustration, irritated and tired and stomped off to the side of the room. The afternoon was silent, everyone had grown accustomed to the soft sound of lute music drifting through the room but this time, Jaskier sat with one hand resting on his lute and watched the other tributes with a blank expression. Only Geralt knew it was because he was too tired to even lift his arms.

That evening, Jaskier ate his dinner quietly and retired to his bedroom while Geralt and Yennefer cleared their plates and moved to coffee.

“I need you to do something for me,” Geralt said, no preamble.

“It’s flattering that you think I have any sway,” Yennefer scoffed in his face. “What do you need?”

They both knew that if Yennefer really put her mind to it, she could achieve her desires. However, Geralt thought it wiser not to mention it or talk too much about desires. It would only lead to questions about what he wanted and, in the grand scheme of things, those never mattered and especially didn’t now.

“I need you to make sure there’s a lute in the arena.”

His request was met with a harsh laugh before Yennefer sobered up. “Oh shit, you’re serious.”

Staring at Yennefer, Geralt waited silently until she schooled her features.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” 

Off to the side, Jaskier’s bedroom door snicked shut and betrayed the fact he had listened to the conversation.

Training was a dull affair, all things considered. The mornings Geralt let Jaskier play the lute and be his usual, aloof self. It meant he could focus on Cirilla and make sure she was prepared. No matter what environment they were going to be thrown into, she was to run away from the fray and towards anything that could offer protection - trees, rocks, coves, anything at all and Geralt and Lazlowould find her when it was safe.

In the afternoons, Geralt would spend time with Jaskier and try to help him improve with the bow. Alas, it was worse than trying to teach a reluctant but competent horse how to jump. The basics were there, kind of, but there was neither willingness nor energy to build on it. At best, Jaskier was a haphazard marksman and definitely not a natural. By the end of the week, he could just about hit the target most of the time but there was nothing lethal about his aim.

The tributes were ushered into a room and called, one at a time, before the gamekeepers for a private session. Geralt wasn’t nervous, not for himself at least. Even Cirilla was likely to do well, she had a commanding presence and could be quite flashy in decapitate a training dummy with a flip-tackle Geralt had taught her.

“Just like we practised,” he told Jaskier as he left, having been summoned first.

In the training area, the gamekeepers hadn't paid much attention to him and Geralt hadn't made much of an effort to show off. They all knew what he was and his capabilities. He was confident in his abilities to protect Ciri, had a solid plan to keep her safe, let everyone kill each other off and only engage when he really had to. The only point of this showboating was to try and secure more sponsors and Geralt was well-aware nobody in their right mind would sponsor a witcher.Both because nobody thought he would need sponsors but also because nobody actually liked witchers.

“You should consider getting behind Cirilla,” he had said as he lazily dismantled a couple of training dummies with a sword. “I will make sure she wins.”

Nodding faux-politely in the direction of Stregobor and the gamekeepers, Geralt left. 

Now, he waited, as nervous as a witcher ever got, for Jaskier to emerge. From his vantage point, he got to watch Jaskier swagger out of the room, looking rather smug and humming under his breath.

“Did you hit the target?” Geralt asked as soon as he could.

“I think I hit the mark okay,” Jaskier nodded. “Showed them what I can do with the lute. Sang quite the scathing ditty about Stregobor’s Single Scrotum. I think it might become a drinking game hit.”

Face falling, Geralt felt ready to strangle Jaskier. He had worked to try and give Jaskier a fighting chance and it was thrown away. Deep down, he knew it didn’t matter. It was absolutely selfish of him to want Jaskier to have better odds of surviving the initial massacre. If Geralt had been a kinder, less selfish man, he would have taught Jaskier which berries to eat for a painless death. But he wasn’t a good man, he was a witcher. And he wanted Jaskier there with him for as long as he could before they both had to die.

Only one more formality was left before the games. The interviews. Geralt watched from the sidelines, trying to assess his opponents, see what they were like outside of training and how the audience reacted to them. To know your enemy was to be better equipped to kill them. The career pack were cheered as they showboated and charmed. Elves and dwarves were watched with rapt fascination, Dara was cooed over as he played up his elven heritage and the fact he was the youngest tribute that year. Geralt’s biggest interest lay in the dragons, Véa and Téa. They had been quiet and proving to be quite deadly with or without a weapon and so were definitely Geralt’s toughest challenge.

Surprisingly, Cirilla was both charming and cold. Obviously Calanthe’s grandchild, and royalty. She commanded the room while coming across as young and sweet. Playing up her friendship with Dara definitely helped warm a few of the colder hearts in the room.

Before he knew it, Geralt was sat in the chair, staring at Valdo Marx and his smarmy face glazed with powder. He was every bit a showman and Geralt could see so much of Jaskier in him. Except Jaskier had an almost palpable good will while Valdo was cold and calculating.

“Geralt of Rivia. You were a surprise. We’ve heard all about it. Your Child Surprise, the Lion Cub of Cintra, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. You’re here to ensure she’s going to win.”

“Yes.” His brief answer had the audience tittering and Valdo gave them a look that said ‘what can you do about it’.

“You must feel a lot of love for her. Even though we all know witchers cannot feel.”

Geralt wasn’t in the mood for the charade, he wasn’t going to indulge. “She’s my responsibility, so I will ensure she is crowned the victor.”

Yennefer was going to kill him for not being more personable. She had pleaded with him, urged him to soften up, if only for the sake of making her job easier. But Geralt refused to sink that low, wasn’t going to debase himself and do such injustice to his fellow witchers who still needed to be seen as fierce. His interview was the shortest, perhaps even a new record. Stalking off the stage, he was replaced by Jaskier who revelled in the attention. Somehow, Yennefer had even managed to equip him with a lute.

Watching from the sidelines, Geralt felt like Jaskier was being treated like a performing animal, made to play that song from the opening ceremony again, leading the audience in a hearty rendition of it.

“Now, Jaskier,” Valdo’s voice turned soft and serious, “we have often heard that bards love easily and deeply. Is there anyone you left behind, some sweetheart who you think of fondly, and wish you could return to?”

If Geralt had been a fool, he would have fallen for the boyish, shy drop of Jaskier’s head to hide his eyes behind his bangs. Looking up, there was something openly aching in his expression.

“Not at home, no,” Jaskier said, voice soft.

“Not back home?”

“No.” It was emphasised with a shake of head. “As you said, bards love easily and deeply. My love has found someone worthy here. He’ll be joining me in the arena.” A hush fell over the whole arena. Everyone watched as Jaskier blinked tears back and smiled, it was a broken, beautiful thing. “It’s a fitting end for a bard, to die at the hands of his beloved. A tragedy to be commemorated in song by someone else, the story of unrequited love so deep, we both died.”

“You seem certain you’ll both die,” Valdo probed.

“Geralt is determined to help Cirilla win, he will kill everyone in her way. Including himself. I will gladly die by his hand if that is the price of his satisfaction.”

Murmurs and sniffles spread through the crowd and Geralt ground his teeth together. Jaskier was not in love with him. There was nothing going on between them, as much as Geralt had coveted in secret, he had refrained. Because while Geralt knew he deserved everything life threw at him, he wasn’t going to be complicit in breaking his own heart.

It was obvious Jaskier was an absolute crowd pleaser. The masses adored him and his charming ways. Then he delivered the kicker when Valdo declared he was braver than any tribute they had ever had before.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier actually sniffed as if on the verge of tears. “It’s not that bad because I can pretend that in another life, Geralt and I might have had a chance. Witchers don’t feel. So while I could never kill him, he won’t feel the heartbreak I would in his place. It’s better this way.”

Walking off the stage, Jaskier was greeted by Yennefer who congratulated him and gave him a hug. Rage engulfed Geralt as he realised that this had been the plan Yennefer and Jaskier had worked out together. It was underhanded and absolutely unnecessary. As they separated, Geralt was storming forward, furious. Grabbing Jaskier by the throat hard enough to bruise but do no real harm, he shoved him against the nearest wall and growled.

“I helped! I made you seem more desirable.” Jaskier croaked but didn’t make any effort to free himself from the bruising grip.

“I don’t need your help,” Gerlat snarled. “I don’t need anything other than a mission which I have.” Leaning in, he sniffed Jaskier, heart thumping oddly in his chest at the lack of fear.

“Don’t be angry now!”

“I’m not.” The words were low and Geralt spoke low against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. “Witchers don’t feel after all, do they?”

Letting Jaskier go, he shouldered past Yennefer to his room. Last night before he was dropped in the middle of literal hell. He didn’t want to see anyone, especially Jaskier.

Morning came far too soon and not soon enough. Geralt had barely slept and he could hear Jaskier plucking away at his lute until the early hours of the morning. They were separated and prodded into a final cleanup. Geralt’s hair was half up, he was stuffed into a grey, tight jumpsuit and his eyes were lined with black. He might as well look his best when killing for public entertainment.

A klaxon sounded with the five minute warning. It made Geralt wonder how many of the tributes knew and accepted they were not coming out of these games alive. The door to his room opened and Yennefer strode in, confident and smiling.

“I came to wish you good luck,” she said, looping her arms around his neck. The kiss was unexpected, they hadn’t touched since the train so it was jarring to have her so close. But when she pulled back, his medallion was around his neck once more. 

The countdown started and Geralt stepped into the pod that would deliver him to the arena and to the last place he would ever see. Only as the pod moved did Geralt realise Yennefer was the last person he saw that he wouldn’t kill or die for.

Emerging into bright sunlight, Geralt squinted. They were all on pedestals, in a wide circle around a cornucopia. Cirilla was out of sight, the gamemakers probably wanting to make it as difficult for him as possible. However, Jaskier was about four pedestals down. It was eerily silent, some of the tributes had eyes only on the stash of weapons and survival gear in the centre while others were watching each other. Geralt hoped Cirilla would follow their plan and run to hide as soon as the cannon sounded. Yennefer had told them that stepping off their starting platforms before that first boom was certain death. An icy shard of worry had Geralt looking to Jaskier, suddenly terrified the bard would step off the pedestal, fully in control of his own life and going out on his own terms. However, from where he stood, Geralt could see Jaskier’s eyes fixed on something near the edge of the Cornucopia. Nestled amongst packs was a lute. Surely Jaskier wouldn’t be so stupid as to grab that rather than something that would ensure his survival.

The cannon sounded and chaos erupted. Geralt spotted his swords near the centre, he ran for them, ducking a wild swing of an axe and he sent Zoltan sprawling with an aard. Swords in hand, Geralt turned just in time to block a strike from Téa. Her head went rolling and Cahir spun a vicious looking sword, face splashed with blood. Not sticking around to see more, Geralt legged it, sweeping up a pack blindly on his way. There were bodies on the ground, he saw Lazlo, a throwing knife sticking out of his back, Chireadan slashed open and eyes staring sightless up at the sky. However, in all the blood and madness, there was no fan of ash blonde hair, nor the now familiar sturdy body Geralt had admired in the Oxenfurt apartment. In his peripheral, Geralt saw that the lute was gone. He jogged through a lush forest, trying to find Cirilla and maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of Jaskier.

It took several hours of wandering and the sun setting before Geralt gave up. He might be a witcher and see better in the dark than a human but he didn’t trust the gamekeepers enough to not suspect they had some nightmares brought to life in the dark. Sleep didn’t come easy, Geralt’s mind drifted to wondering whether Jaskier had made it to the edge of the arena, whether he had found a way out. A cannon fired and the sky above him came alight, pictures of the dead tributes flashed up. So many pointless deaths, thankfully none caused by Geralt. The ‘yet’ hung heavy at the end of that thought. Chireadan, Lazlo, Yarpen, Zoltan, Eyck, and Téa. Names that were all going to be forgotten all too soon by the masses while those who wanted them home would only have memories to cling to. And soon, Geralt was going to join their ranks.

After a few hours of rest, the wafting smell of smoke disturbed Geralt. It was a way away, he could just about pick up the smell of burning wood. His heart lurched in his chest, feeling for whatever poor sod had been caught out. Yet there wasn’t the telltale thud of a cannon to signal yet another death.

There was no way Geralt was going to be able to rest anymore, not with the forest on fire. Getting up, he heaved his pack onto his shoulder and set off, away from the fire. Having lived for so long, he’d seen how quickly it could spread and he wasn’t going to get caught up in it. Instead, he set off in the opposite direction, back towards the Cornucopia. Thankfully, he didn’t encounter anyone through the night, Geralt didn’t exactly relish the idea of slitting sleeping throats.

He trudged until day broke and he’d skirted the Cornucopia. Based on what he could hear and smell, the career pack had made their base there. So caught up in commending himself for avoiding the career pack, Geralt stumbled into a different camp - the Blaviken tributes. He watched as Renfri hopped up from her spot and pulled Marilka against her front, blade at her throat.

“Don’t come near me!”

Unimpressed, Geralt stared at her wondering whether she realised that threatening to kill someone wasn’t going to deter him in the context of the games. He stepped closer and Marilka whimpered as blood beaded up under the blade on her neck. Another step and Renfri jerked the blade. Blood spurted in an arc and Marilka dropped to the ground, weakly clutching at her throat. The echo of a cannon shot marked her death.

“I wasn’t going to let you butcher her. We’ve all heard of witcher brutality!” Renfri raged. “I did her a favour!”

Whether she was trying to convince Geralt or herself, it wasn’t clear. All Geralt could do was given Marilka’s lifeless body a glance and feel a pang of sadness. She had been so cheerful and inquisitive during training. In any other circumstance, Geralt had a feeling he would have liked her. Now though, he was just grateful that it wasn’t by his hand that she had died, even if he was responsible.

“I am just passing through,” he told Renfri, keen to avoid combat. Maybe Jaskier’s values had rubbed off on him more than he’d have wanted. Geralt was tired of killing. He would protect Cirilla and make sure she came to no harm but he really didn’t want to kill. Unfortunately, Renfri didn’t seem to want to listen and she raised her sword.

“I will not fall for your trickery.”

“If we cross swords, I won’t be able to stop,” Geralt warned.

Renfri attacked. She was an excellent swordsman, controlled, fuelled by fury and desperation. Really, Geralt had to commend her, especially when a dagger nicked him across the thigh. Inconvenient by all means but not the end of the world. However, it spurred Geralt on, made him realise that there was no way Renfri would back down and run. Then at least the blood of an innocent wouldn’t be on his hand. But this was a kill or be killed situation and he had a job. A few more thrusts, a spin and Geralt had Renfri caught, his sword under her chin while the stood rigid, fate sealed. One thrust was all it took and Geralt was dropping his swords in order to cushion her fall. She stared up at him, breath hitching and Geralt wished he could cry. As Renfri fell lax in his arms, a cannon fired and Geralt allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and bow his head.

There was no point in lingering. Half the contestants were now dead, only one by Geralt’s own hand. He really didn’t want to add any more to that count but at the same time, he desperately hoped that nobody had gotten to Jaskier either. It was the duality of his heart, not wanting to kill Jaskier but also wishing that nobody else would do it either. As he started moving again, Geralt toyed with the idea of ensuring Jaskier was the one who emerged a victor from all this mess. But he couldn’t do that, it would be unfair to him. If Jaskier won, it would only be misery on the outside for him, Calanthe would surely seek to punish him for Geralt’s misdeeds and the death of the granddaughter. Considering there was no way Geralt could be there to protect him after the games, it was an idea that he pushed out of his mind as quickly as it came.

Trying not to think about Jaskier meant Geralt’s head was stuck in a loop of Renfri and how her blood was caked under his fingernails, Geralt wandered the forest, trying to track down Cirilla. He couldn’t help it when his mind replaced Renfri’s face with Jaskier’s, he knew that was to come and, like never before, his whole body rebelled at the idea. It was a fact that witchers didn’t kill innocents. The very reason for their being was to protect humanity from the monsters that a regular human was too weak to kill. To use the brute force and skill, to turn it on those he was meant to protect left a very sour taste in Geralt’s mouth.

So lost in his head, Geralt almost missed the sounds from up ahead. It was jeering and laughter of the worst kind. Despite knowing that this was part of the games, Geralt couldn’t help himself, he had to go and intervene. Especially when Dara’s voice yelled and a woman cursed.

“Shake that little shit from the tree.”

Creeping closer, Geralt’s heart sank. It was Cahir, Fringilla and Mousesack, all crowded around a tree. Up high, Dara was looking a little panicked and cornered. There was something so deeply unfair about the sight, a child against three adults. It made Geralt see red. Which was why he didn’t realise that things weren’t as clearcut as his initial assessment had been. Dara kept glancing up and it was only Geralt’s enhanced hearing that helped him pick up on a soft giggle and the sound of a branch snapping above them all. Fast reflexes had him stepping back just as the tracker jacker nest fell and exploded. From above he heard Cirilla’s bright laugh and Dara’s “awesome”. However, Geralt was too busy trying to get away, the stings to his hands, neck and face painful. From the periphery of his swimming vision, he saw Mousesack and Cahir escape, swatting at the tracker jackers but Fringilla stumbled, screaming as the insects swarmed on her.

Stumbling, Geralt kept blinking, to keep his vision in focus. He swore he could hear his name being called, a figure stepping behind trees, looking so much like Visenna. She shouldn’t have been there, especially not when she looked like the day she abandoned him on that path. Calling out to her, Geralt fought hard to stay conscious. He knew that it wasn’t safe to succumb but the venom was strong and he fell to his knees, still trying to reach Visenna, maybe even hope for some help. No doubt there were cameras to film his collapse from at least three different angles but Geralt didn’t have the energy or ability to care as he passed out face first on the forest floor.

Time was impossible to measure when unconscious. Everything was muddled and Geralt’s head pounded, vision swimming in a way that only Lambert’s moonshine had ever achieved before. He groaned and tried to remember what had happened. Cirilla’s laughter, pain, Fringilla’s scream.

“Don’t move,” a voice called and Geralt tried to look, hoping to see Visenna. Something cold was pressed against Geralt’s cheek, making him jerk. The whole world spun with it.

“Told you.” It was no longer her voice, it was musical but definitely male, someone Geralt felt comfortable with. “Welcome back. You had me worried for a little while there.”

Jaskier. Geralt let out a huff of relief. The bard was still alive and, seemingly intent on caring for the one who would eventually slit his throat.

“You shouldn’t have saved me,” he croaked and a leaf with pooling water was held to his lips.

“You’re very welcome my dear.” Jaskier seemed intent on ignoring the comment, acting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to save someone in an arena where the whole aim was to be the sole survivor. “I was so worried you were going to die on me. It would have been most unfortunate, I would have followed you into death with a broken heart.”

As he moved, Geralt watched and frowned. Jaskier’s movements were stiff, he shuffled around the cave they were in, clearly favouring his right side. As much as he could, Geralt focused on him and tried to see the cause of the issue. There was a crude bandage on Jaskier’s thigh, made from a torn scrap of fabric. It was damp with blood and the clear fluid wounds sometimes oozed.

“You’re hurt.”

Instinctively, Jaskier looked down at his leg and shrugged. “I got near the edge so they started shooting fireballs at me. A fiery branch caught me as I tried to run away.”

So Jaskier was in pain, was injured yet he had still managed to drag Geralt to the safety of the cave. A fresh cloth was put against Geralt’s neck and Jaskier’s hand strayed up to cup his cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay. The whole continent was probably holding its breath, worried that their mighty witcher would be felled. After all, Fringilla succumbed to the venom.”

“Witchers are hardier,” Geralt replied. He had turned his head a little to press into Jaskier’s palm.

Slowly, carefully, Jaskier leaned down, their lips were obscured from prying eyes and he mouthed “go along with it” before Geralt was being kissed softly. It wasn’t the kind of kiss a witcher usually got. In fact, witchers very very rarely got to kiss at all. Still too disoriented and stunned to do much more than lie there and open up to Jaskier’s kiss, Geralt just let it happen.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Jaskier breathed against his lips, a hand cupping Geralt’s dirty cheek, their foreheads resting together. “I thought I’d lost you.”

If Geralt didn’t know any better, Jaskier actually meant that. But this was a game of death and only one of them would make it out alive. Or rather, neither of them would but, if all went according to plan, Cirilla would walk out victorious.

Their moment was broken by the incessant beeping of something outside. Geralt tensed but Jaskier smiled.

“It’s okay. Someone had mercy.” He got up and hobbled towards the entrance to the cave. It hurt to watch him go but Geralt was too dizzy and weak to follow, the tracker jacker venom still coursing through his veins. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before Jaskier limped back, a canister with a parachute on it in his hands. “Sponsors. They send contestants help from time to time.”

He opened the canister and pulled a small jar of salve out, along with a rolled up note.

_ You call that a kiss? _ _  
_ _ VEL _

It had Jaskier snorting out a laugh as he showed Geralt the note. “Your Vel is rather generous. This is a healing salve for your wounds.”

“It’s Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert,” Geralt corrected and hissed as Jaskier spread the salve on the stings. However, it helped, the relief almost immediate as they stopped burning and making his skin feel too tight. “Put some on your wound too.”

When it looked like Jaskier was going to hesitate, Geralt struggled to sit up and reached for the makeshift bandage. He almost let out a sympathetic hiss at the sight of the wound. It looked like quite a deep burn and Geralt wondered how infection hadn’t set in already. In a way, it didn’t matter, the salve was going to help. Without thinking, Geralt smeared the paste on the wound, covering it liberally. A pained grunt turned into a relieved sigh as the ointment soothed and began to heal.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed, head tipped back and eyes closed. “I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be pain free.” He pulled his head upright and grinned widely at Geralt, shuffling closer. “You know what they say also helps? Kissing it better.”

“I’m fairly certain that it usually means kissing the woun-” Geralt’s musings were cut short by another kiss, this one much more demanding. There was a tongue pressing between his lips and Geralt was being guided down to lie on his back while Jaskier continued to lick into his mouth, demanding and controlling. He could almost hear Lambert’s wolf whistle as he watched, the note had no doubt been his doing.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting a little and looking rather smug with himself. “I don’t know about you, but I feel much better after that.”

Annoyingly, so did Geralt, though he chose to believe it was the healing properties of the salve rather than Jaskier’s kiss that was responsible. Head much more clear, Geralt looked around with some curiosity. The lute was in the corner of the cave, along with a sturdy stick that Jaskier no doubt used for walking. But there was not a single weapon in sight, no traps, nothing that spoke of Jaskier having lived in the wild for who knew how long. Geralt had a feeling he was out for longer than he’d have liked to be.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days.”

The reply still shocked Geralt and he frowned. Two days was far too long, so much could have happened in that time, Cirilla could have died. It could have been that everyone other than the two of them had died. Trying to steer his thoughts and hopes away from the idea that Cirilla was dead and Geralt could ensure Jaskier’s safety, he decided to focus on something else.

“How are you still alive?” It was safe to say that charming wasn’t part of his skillset. Even if his question was genuine, Jaskier still looked deeply offended.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised I’m still here. I can look after myself.” A raised eyebrow from Geralt had him scowling in annoyance, obviously aware of the questions Geralt had. “Some heathen had stuffed the lute full of food and a waterskin,” he admitted quietly.

Blowing a breath out, Geralt stared at the ceiling. “Thank your lucky stars for that.”

“They ruined a beautiful musical treasure,” Jaskier huffed indignantly. “She’ll never sound true again.”

As far as Geralt was concerned, that wasn’t even a tragedy, let alone a huge loss in the grand scheme of things. However, the more he looked at the lute, the more strange something looked about it.

“May I have a look?” he asked, hand out and intent on investigating the anomaly.

Hesitantly, Jaskier handed it over. “Just be careful. She’s a strange one, delicate and- GERALT!”

The roar of his name echoed in the cave and Geralt stared at the remains of the lute he had just smashed against the wall. As he’d suspected, there was more to the lute than just a musical instrument. In his hands was the makings of a bow, the curve of the lute’s body was perfect for the limbs of the bow, a string easy enough to fix into place.

“You didn’t have a musical instrument,” he asserted. “You had a survival pack in disguise.”

“I need music to survive!”

Geralt sent Jaskier an unamused look. No amount of music was going to save either of them. Actually, that thought brought reality crashing back down around them. Because Geralt was going to be the one to put a stop to Jaskier’s survival. If he were a kinder person, Geralt would have done it then and there, while Jaskier was turned away and relatively happy. The last thing Geralt wanted was to carry out a mercy killing when Jaskier was injured and it was in the midst of a fight. Hand straying to his sword hilt, Geralt watched Jaskier turn from the lute’s remains to him, eyes drifting to where Geralt’s hand rested.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not die right now.” Letting go of his hilt, Geralt looked away, ashamed. Killing innocents while their back was turned was not his way. “I promise I won’t be any trouble, you won’t even know I’m there. I’ll be but silent backup.”

All logic screamed at Geralt to get it over and done with now, while it was easy. But his heart wasn’t in it. In fact, his heart was off on a flight of fancy that Cirilla died before he could get to her and then he could protect Jaskier instead. It was ridiculous and unlikely but Geralt was a dead man walking. He could indulge in a little bit of fantasy.

“Okay, on one condition.”

That was how they ended up outside the cave, Geralt fiddling with the remains of the lute while Jaskier lamented his beloved.

“I only had her for a few days but I loved her so much. She saved my life.”

Technically, Geralt suspected it was Yennefer who saved Jaskier’s life, modifying the lute to hold food and water as well as doubling up as a weapon. However, he wisely kept his mouth shut on the matter and kept picking the neck of the lute apart into modified arrows. The tuning pegs were the tips and inside the body had been string and feathers.

“Alright, pay attention,” he said as he stood, bow in hand, arrow nocked. Of course Jaskier stepped closer to look and was almost smacked in the chest as he stood too close. A growl had him taking half a step back. “Just like I showed you during training. Fingers to lips and nose, breath in, hold, sight and release on breath out.”

He let the arrow fly and Jaskier clapped when it hit the knot in the tree ahead.

“Impressive, my dear witcher,” he lauded. “But I told you, I will not wield a weapon, I will not kill for the entertainment and containment of the masses.” When Geralt tried to hand Jaskier the bow, the other man stepped away, hands up in refusal. “What did I just say?”

Growling, Geralt pushed the bow at Jaskier, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Oh very well, just the one arrow though.”

Jaskier nocked the arrow and did a vague approximation of what Geralt had shown him. However, it wasn’t good enough.

“Keep that hand straight,” Geralt said as he reached for the bow, changing the angle. “And elbow higher.”

Once Jaskier was as close to okay as he could get, Geralt let him go and the arrow was released. It clattered off into the undergrowth. However, Jaskier didn’t seem to care, he hastily shoved the bow back at Geralt after one try. If he was going to be so apathetic, there was no time or inclination to argue. Geralt slung the weapon over his back in acceptance of Jaskier’s mulish insistence. They needed to get a move on, Cirilla needed to be found. She had a game to win.

They trekked through the forest slowly, mindful of their healing injuries. It was too still, too quiet. Well, it would have been if Jaskier could keep his mouth shut. He chattered constantly, wandered off the path each time he saw something exciting. Such as the exclamation of “ooh berries!” which Geralt only stopped just in time, smacking the dark purple pieces from Jaskier’s hand.

“Eat those and you’ll be dead. Did you not pay any attention to the survival tips?”

He ignored how, seemingly out of spite, Jaskier shoved berries into his pocket, muttering under his breath about the colour of them being perfect for a doublet. It was easier to tune him out and try to listen to the woods around them. There weren’t many contestants left, if Geralt was right, it was him, Jaskier, Cirilla, Dara, Mousesack, Véa and Cahir. Five more deaths and then himself. If only Geralt could have taken some of the berries Jaskier had been eyeing up. But a witcher would need to eat more than physically possible to die. Not that anyone knew that other than witchers.

A child’s scream echoed through the forest, sharp and piercing. It was followed by the low resonating thud of a cannon, signifying a death. Direction given, Geralt rushed through the trees to get to the scene. Despite his hopes earlier, he hoped he wouldn’t find the broken body of a child, mercilessly slaughtered. In his panic, he ignored the giggling laughter of a child until he burst through the clearing. Cirilla stood over the body of Mousesack, smiling. Her head snapped up as he entered the clearing.

“Oh, there you are,” she sneered. “Some guardian you are.”

“Cirilla,” Geralt greeted with a nod. “You were difficult to track down.”

From behind her, Dara stepped out with a shy wave. Geralt acknowledged him with another tip of his chin.

“Ciri’s been doing a great job of keeping us alive,” Dara gushed, smiling. “She killed Fringilla and Mousesack now. She’s going to be queen one day and her enemies had better beware.”

It was such a childish view, Geralt had to remind himself that Dara was so very young by elf standards. Barely more than a toddler in their eyes really. Yet here he was, all but idolising a young girl for killing her elders. Geralt was almost glad he was going to be dead rather than suffer the consequences of her reign. If her grandmother was anything to go by, Cirilla was going to be as much of an iron fisted tyrant, maybe even more so.

“We need to keep moving. It’s not safe here.” Definitely the practical thing to say but Geralt spotted how Cirilla rolled her eyes.

“I’ll show you where we’ve been hiding out,” she said.

That was going to be useful to know. It might even be a good place to have them hiding out while Geralt left to deal with the remaining opponents. He became less certain of it as Cirilla guided them to a ravine with a narrow walkway along one side. One wrong step and it was certain death. Looking at the small group, Geralt was on the verge of saying they shouldn’t go that way. Just looking at the drop had Jaskier paling.

“It’s easy, look,” Cirilla declared and began to edge out along the plank. Her ever-present shadow in the form of Dara was after her almost instantly. Standing at the edge, Geralt peered around with Jaskier. They were going to have to follow the children.

“Hey Dara, look!” Twisting, Cirilla pointed out into the mist, eyes big and bright.

“I don’t see anything,” Dara replied and leaned out a little. Insisting that something was there, Cirilla urged him to look harder and he leaned some more.

“Just be care-” Geralt’s warning was lost as Cirilla gave Dara’s back a harsh shove. He fell with a scream while Jaskier gasped and staggered back in horror. In fact, he looked to be on the verge of throwing up. Above them, a cannon’s shot echoed through the air. 

It took Geralt a moment to recover, he had expected many things but not that. In fact, he had been trying to figure out a way to ensure they could all leave the arena as victors. Surely the public would see how young Dara was, would help protest the mindless slaughter. Because Geralt didn’t think he could kill a child. It turned out, he wouldn’t have to.

“Why?” Jaskier breathed, looking green.

“Grandmother taught me to always have someone weaker at your side. So if things got difficult, they would be captured and killed before me.” Cirilla looked so haughty as she made her way back towards them. Instinctively, Jaskier took a step away from her. “Now that you’re here, I had no more use for Dara. He was going to have to die anyway. There can only be one victor and that will be me.”

Repulsed, Geralt decided to keep his mouth shut rather than say something wrong. He didn’t wish to be lectured by a bloodthirsty child. Or risk her ire. While Geralt didn’t think she could easily kill him, he didn’t want to risk it. That wasn’t to say Jaskier wasn’t at risk. After all, Cirilla had already killed two adults, a third wouldn’t be an issue for her. Especially not someone like Jaskier.

With Geralt out front and Jaskier at the back they had a frankly terrifying child safe between them. As they walked, Cirilla kept up a chatter, commenting on how she would change things when she was queen of Cintra. Her plans veered between hilariously childish (a holiday centred around iced, sweet treats which allegedly she wasn’t allowed too many of) and downright horrifying (the training regime for all children of age to be picked as tributes - they sounded worse than witcher training). Even Jaskier made less noise than she did and that was saying something.

They stopped in a clearing, tired and needing a bit of a rest. While the salve had helped heal wounds, Geralt hadn’t missed Jaskier’s slight limp. His own head was a little fuzzy still. Grunting for Cirilla and Jaskier to stop, Geralt decided to do a perimeter check just to be safe. He set off towards the edge of the clearing while Jaskier settled down, lamenting his lack of lute once again. In the bushes, something moved and Geralt zeroed in on it. However, he was too late. Véa rose from the undergrowth, form perfect as she drew back the arrow and let it fly, headed straight for Cirilla.

It was too late, Geralt couldn’t do anything from the other side of the clearing other than watch. Jaskier wasn’t even paying attention, morosely looking at the remains of the lute he had been resolutely carrying around like some kind of relic. Even shouting wouldn’t have been enough other than to draw attention to Geralt. To the side, closest to Cirilla, the bushes erupted and she was violently shoved to the floor by a body.

Her fury was ground shaking. The screech was more cutting than the knife she hurled towards the archer who dared try to assault her. Geralt could only watch as the blade found its home embedded in Véa’s throat and she fell with a gurgle. A cannon shot rang through the air. It didn’t account for the figure on the ground who Jaskier was turning onto his back, cradling Cahir’s head in his lap. The arrow meant for Cirilla was embedded deep in his chest.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier was murmuring as Geralt dropped to the ground next to them. “You’ll be fine. Just keep still.”

Not like Cahir could get up or move too much. His breath rattled in his chest and a hand weakly reached up. Geralt snagged it before it could touch the arrow. He couldn’t say he understood why Cahir had taken the arrow, not when he was one of the career pack, usually favoured to win. But maybe he was as soft as Geralt deep down and thought no child should die such a meaningless death. If only he had known more about Cirilla, maybe he would have let the arrow find its true home.

“It hurts.” There was disbelief in Cahir’s voice, tinged with agony. “Please.”

Geralt could feel the trembling in the hand he held. There was nothing they could do, Cahir was already dead, he just didn’t know it yet. He watched as Jaskier swept hair out of Cahir’s face, careful, gentle and tender.

“Cold,” Cahir whined, his back arched as pain ratcheted through him and Geralt tried to hold him down. A mantra of “keep him company, ease his way” repeated in Geralt’s mind and he stayed in place.

“It’s okay, it will be fine. It won’t hurt soon, I promise.” Jaskier’s voice was shaking but it didn’t stop him from humming a soft lullaby. However, Cahir shook his head.

“Not Nilfgaard. Vicovar.” The words were gasped, wet and strained. They obviously cost Cahir a lot to say but he gritted them out, desperate for the strangers around him to know.

Immediately, Jaskier switched tunes to something equally soothing but in a minor key. That was when Geralt realised the lullaby had been Nilfgaardian but now, to help Cahir, Jaskier switched to Vicovarian. Tears dripped down Jaskier’s cheeks and his voice wavered but he kept humming even as Cahir’s breath stuttered, eyes going distant and glassy. They stayed with him, Geralt held his cooling, limp hand until a cannon shot drowned out Jaskier’s humming.

Eyes red-rimmed, Jaskier looked up at Geralt. “We can’t just leave him here.”

“It’s just the three of us. I wish to be crowned on the Cornucopia.” Cirilla’s interruption was most unwelcome and Geralt had to tamp down on a growl. “Come on. Just leave the bodies.”

A pleading look from Jaskier and Geralt stood up, turning to face Cirilla. “We’ll go soon. But we do this first.”

There was a cheerful jingle to signify an announcement that was at odds with the somber mood. A jolly voice spoke.

“Congratulations to our last three contenders! There has been a change in rules. Both tributes from the same district may be declared victors if they are the last two alive. Good luck to all!”

This was all a game to them. Geralt couldn’t decide if they were punishing him by having to choose between emotions and duty, or if they were pushing Jaskier into picking up a weapon. Neither was fair.

“Witcher!” Cirilla’s voice hit a new, painful shriek. “Do your duty. Now!”

Turning his back on her, Geralt helped Jaskier gather flowers and laid them around Cahir. All through it, Jaskier hummed the eery chorus of the lullaby, weaving flowers into Cahir’s hair while Geralt snapped the arrow off. And, because they couldn’t leave Véa in a bloody heap either, he carried her from the undergrowth and laid her out on the other side of the clearing. It only felt right to respect the dead. They weren’t the true enemy.

They were finishing up when Geralt’s head whipped up. In the distance, he could hear howling and the sound of feet thumping against the ground.

“Run!” he yelled and grabbed Jaskier by the scruff to drag him along. “To the Cornucopia!”

He could hear growling, snarling, and panting from behind them. Typically, Jaskier looked behind them and screamed. It had Geralt looking too, cursing as he saw mutated dogs with slobber dripping from open jaws in long strings. The Cornucopia wasn’t too far but the artificial sun set as they approached. Cirilla was already trying to hop up onto the structure and Geralt gave her a shove, to get her up. Unfortunately, Jaskier was too large to just push up so Geralt scaled the side of the Cornucopia and turned to pull him up. His foot barely missed being caught in the vice like jaw of the abominations below. The angle allowed Geralt to get a good look at the muttations, horrified at the sight that greeted him. Familiar blue-green eyes on one of them, so very much like Renfri. A smaller one had dark brown ones the exact shade of Dara’s. It had Geralt backing away, terrified of seeing Cahir’s eyes, or Mousesack’s. In fact, he didn’t want to see any of the fallen tributes’ gazes in the faces of the muttations.

“Why did you pull him up?” Cirilla screamed. “He needs to die! Kill him!”

Geralt watched as Jaskier looked between them, face pale and breath catching in his throat. This was it. The moment Geralt had been dreading.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier whispered, barely audible over the snapping jaws and growls as the muttations tried to scrabble up to the top. “We knew this was coming.”

Except it wasn’t okay. Not in the slightest.

“Kill him!” Cirilla screeched, her voice reaching a new pitch that grated on Geralt’s nerves. He couldn’t let Jaskier go. Not without a kiss.

Opposite him, Jaskier took a small, shuffling step back, he was right on the edge. This couldn’t be the end. Geralt had seen too much death, dealt it out more than he wanted to and to lose Jaskier, it felt like too much. Despite not being the one to shove Jaskier off the Cornucopia, Geralt’s inactions condemned him just as much. Behind him, Cirilla kept screaming, demanding her rightful victory.

In one step, Geralt covered the distance between him and Jaskier. Fisting the front of Jaskier’s clothes, he pulled him in for a harsh kiss. His other hand swept out, a silent aard burst from his fingers and Geralt absolutely didn’t think about what he had just done. Didn’t think of Cirilla and how her reign would have been one of cruel terror. Didn’t think about how Calanthe would destroy him. Didn’t think about anything other than Jaskier’s warm lips under his, so very alive and the hands clutching at his shoulders reassured Geralt that they hadn’t fallen, hadn’t made a mistake.

There was an outraged scream cut short by the howl of the muttations as they pounced on their prey.

Jaskier pulled away, eyes wide and arms limp by his sides in shock. He looked at the spot where Cirilla should have been and let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Did you just-?” He laughed again and pressed a hand to his mouth. “Fuck.”

They stepped closer to the edge where only Ciri’s bloodied hair was visible under the muttations. Neither of them said anything and Geralt winced, wondering whether Jaskier would be disgusted in him now. A cannon signified the end and they moved away from the edge as the abominations all whipped their heads up, hearing a summons not even Geralt could pick up on.

“We won,” Jaskier breathed. Eyes wide, he watched Geralt. Neither of them wanted to see the remains the muttations had left behind. No doubt they would be shown it anyway in the interview as victors. That was something Geralt wasn’t looking forward to in the slightest. He’d killed Renfri because he had no choice. But Cirilla was his decision and nobody else’s. Geralt had defied his orders, failed his task. Yet he couldn’t find any regret in himself. Not when his choice had been between Jaskier who refused to kill and Cirilla who was frankly terrifying in her eagerness to kill those who stood in her way. In fact, Geralt was stunned she hadn’t made an attempt on Jaskier’s life.

Looking around, Jaskier was obviously searching for something. “What now?”

Geralt tugged him away, maybe it was the body in the vicinity that was the issue. Gingerly, he slipped off the Cornucopia and helped Jaskier down too. He never thought he would feel solid ground under his feet ever again. There was a newfound appreciation for it and Geralt tried not to marvel at the novelty of it. Overhead, the artificial sun came up, making them both blink. A cheerful jingle caught their attention.

“Greetings to the final contestants of the Hunger Games,” Istredd chirped. “The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds ever be in your favour.”

Geralt and Jaskier stared at each other. They had been played and Geralt couldn’t believe he’d fallen for it. Of course they couldn’t let him walk out of the arena alive and with Jaskier by his side. Even worse, Jaskier inhaled sharply, nodded and took a step back, baring his throat.

“We tried,” he said simply. “And almost won. I won’t fight you.”

As if Geralt would want to fight Jaskier either. His hand was on the hilt of his sword but Geralt wasn’t raising it against Jaskier. Instead, he was taking a good grip on the blade, bracing to shove it through his own ribcage. It wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant but, for Jaskier, he would do it without a single regret. He could live with Cirilla’s blood on his hands. But not Jaskier’s.

“Geralt! No!” Jaskier’s voice was high and tight with panic and he was batting the sword away from where Geralt had lined it up. “There has to be a way. We can win this.”

Silently, Geralt watched him. There was no way to win, both of them knew that. One of them was going to have to die and, in that moment, it looked like they would both die for the other. Jaskier truly was a peculiar human, prepared to die so a witcher could live. Geralt hoped that Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir would keep an eye out for Jaskier when he was inevitably chewed up and spat out by the corporate machine. Especially when Calanthe was going to be out to get revenge.

“They’ll only send a new terror to kill one of us,” Geralt said. He was tired, he was ready to die now. If only Jaskier would stop batting his sword out of the way. However, he’d obviously said something that gave Jaskier an idea because he was stepping away with a harried “wait, wait” and pulling something from his pockets. The berries.

“We don’t have to give them what they want. They won’t get a victor this year.”

There weren’t enough berries to do more than maybe give Geralt a bad stomach ache. But nobody knew that other than his fellow witchers. At least, he hoped. Looking down at the berries, he scooped up half of them. The other half was more than enough to finish Jaskier off.

“Berries in our hands, a rebellion at our feet,” Jaskier murmured. “Ready?”

Holding the berries, Geralt shook his head. “One more thing.” With that, he pulled Jaskier closer, slotted their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss. A final memory of what his bard tasted like. Geralt would kiss him again with berry tainted lips, give him a soft memory to fade to but, selfishly, he wanted one more moment of purely Jaskier.

“Okay,” he breathed as he pulled away.

Slowly, they raised the berries to their lips and Jaskier gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Like going to sleep. We’ll be fine.”

A berry touched Geralt’s lips and the world around them erupted in sound.

“Stop! Stop!” Istredd sounded panicked. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present the victors of this year’s Hunger Games. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and Geralt of Rivia, tributes of Oxenfurt.”

The berries tumbled to the ground and Jaskier let out a soft huff before squealing and throwing himself at Geralt for another, much deeper kiss. Holding him up and close, Geralt saw no reason not to kiss back. They’d won. It was only the first hurdle but they cleared it. They were walking out of the arena together, victors and survivors. The rest could come later, for now, he had Jaskier to kiss and would continue to protect him, come what may.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as @jaskiersvalley for more ficlets.


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